Run Committed

The Starving Arts

Today I have the pleasure of handing the reins to a guest-blogger who shall remain anonymous. She has fought demons that many “fitness” types will never admit they battle on a daily, even hourly basis. Has she won, lost or fought to a draw? I will let you be the judge – but be kind. Despite posting anonymously, I think she is courageous to share her story. I find the honestly in this post enlightening and ultimately uplifting, especially as I move ever closer to joining the fitness industry.
-Luau

***

People look at me and congratulate me on my weight. They see the outside, borne of exercise and hard work.
And starvation.
And obsession.
They don’t realize that every compliment drives me back onto the road, pounding down another two miles. They don’t realize that, some days, I survived on less than 500 calories and gallons of Diet Coke.
That starvation is control.
And that, if your world is falling apart, sometimes the only thing you can control is yourself. But I went about it the wrong way.

***

I approached Luau about writing this piece a while back; after therapy, I’d finally admitted what my husband and mother already knew: that was I starving myself. That it was a badge of courage for me.
I’d started running after finally being healthy enough to do so. Combined with being the primary caregiver of two small children, working a stressful job, and dealing with a strained marriage, running gave me an outlet for all the stress in my life. But, as my husband worked longer hours, and as stress piled up, I couldn’t handle it. I started eating less and less. I told myself that I looked good, and that I was happy.

That was a lie.

I saw the truth in the mirror. The gaunt cheeks, the sallow skin. The dry hair falling out in handfuls. I felt my ribs in the middle of my chest, between my breasts, and was terrified that I had some sort of tumor. But I realized that those were my bones, rising up to meet skin because there was no fat between them. On I went, admiring the gap between my thighs, and the slimness of my calves, and the sharpness of my shoulders and collarbones.

You are beautiful, I told myself. I could model clothes with this figure, right? Most women who’d never given birth weren’t this thin; I wore my slimness as a medal of honor. My sharp angles were an award; they were a matter of pride. Every compliment fed the obsession; every word of praise was fuel to the fire of control burning within.

With help, I realized that my relationship with food, and my obsession with thinness…it was all a way to control myself. To get a hold of my life. To stop the downward spiral. She told me that I was an anorexic; I don’t know if that is true, but I think that the label “eating disorder” applies. I told my mother, and I reached out to another friend who I knew was a master of the Starving Arts.

I stopped running.

I started eating.

Later on, life improved. My marriage improved. And after I’d put on five doctor-ordered pounds, a friend said, “Thank God; you looked like a stick figure.” Those words hurt, but I know now that they were true. When my mother recently came to visit, she praised that my “face had filled out;” it took every fiber of my being not to stop eating entirely when I heard that. This, from a woman who had once criticized my heavier self in college, and who belittled her own body. Who had had breast implants and liposuction at some point to make herself more attractive.

Did she not see the walking contradiction? Did she not understand why I couldn’t believe her words?

I knew, though, that the day my beautiful daughter said her round little tummy was “too heavy,” I had to change. I immediately told her how beautiful her stomach was, and decide to commit to a life of self-love, as best as I could. And that meant admitting that I couldn’t control everything, and that I had to control myself in a healthy way. Which meant that I could no longer starve myself; I had to control that obsession and need.

Today, I look at pictures of beautiful friends, friends with soft bodies and ample breasts and hips. Friends who have a comfortable place for babies to rest on, instead of shuffling to get comfortable, as mine do on me. And I think to myself: You were happier when you were heavier. And I think again that I wish I had the courage to have their softness. Even if it isn’t necessarily the healthiest choice, that body takes the same courage that it does to run a marathon.

Their bravery is legendary to me, because I’m not sure I’ll ever have it again.

But I’ve written this story after eating a good dinner. And in a minute, I’ll have a brownie. Pretty good for a girl who used to say that no meal could be over 200 calories, huh?

And someday soon, I will run again. Not out of a need to control, but to know that my body is strong and healthy.

Thank-you for loving yourself enough to get the help and support you need to face those demons ruling you! My hope is that you continue to care for yourself in the same way you care for your precious daughter and that life is only joy going forward!
WTG!!

I’ve finally gotten comfortable enough with my 42 year old post-children body that is a fair bit heavier than my old self. But I want my children to see me accepting me no matter how I look. I watched my sister cringe from photos in front of her girls, malign her body, and criticize others’ appearance in front of them. That is not a healthy model. And you’re right, it takes courage to stand in the face of a thin-focussed-western world and be who you are.

One day I will have more time to exercise. One day I will have more energy to not fear being hungry, and thus reduce what I eat.

Until then, let’s love ourselves. Thanks for such a well written reminder!

Thank you for sharing your story! I have been down this path to a degree too. I don’t know how old you are but “Tab” used to be my “Diet Coke.” So many Tabs that I wet the bed as a teenager and so many carrots that the palms of my hands turned orange. There wasn’t much else being consumed. This was in high school; it was never “officially” diagnosed but sub 100 pounds and the loss of a couple years of periods probably says all it needs to say.

Having a daughter I was so thrilled for so many of years years of her childhood b/c it didn’t look like she was going to face the same demons. She was a competitive gymnast so it really didn’t matter what she ate (to a degree). Since the stopped that though I have wished I had set a different example for eating because it’s been more of a struggle, especially since she is surrounded by her peer dancers.

Every time I see one of those popular magazines with the “most beautiful” types — who have a legion of trainers to help them “be beautiful” and very possible a legion of air brushers to perfect the perfect, I think what’s REALLY beautiful to me is every mom I have met along the way, no matter what shape, who has given everything she can to help her children be all they can be. Probably won’t ever see it on a magazine cover but that’s not society’s true measure anyway.

In high school there was a girl on the cross country team that, as the season progressed, it became clearer and clearer to everyone that she had an eating disorder. Everyone that is except her mother, who refused to see the problem at hand. She collapsed one day on the course and that was the wake up call her mother needed to realize her daughter needed help. It shouldn’t take that long for people to realize something needs to change but admitting it’s a problem takes a lot of guts in the first place.

I don’t know you, but I’m proud of you. Your story is such an important one and you are courageous to share it with us. I am certain that your words have made an impact on many, including me. Thank you.